Alnwick Castle, UK. December 2000.

My shooting schedule was brutal.

In between the interior school scenes filmed at Durham Cathedral - such as the transfiguration classes - I was also shuttled back and forth to Leavesden studio, where the Privet drive scenes were being filmed in tandem.

We even got to include the sassy moments between the Dursleys and Harry!

Alnwick Castle was also on the list of destinations - all the exterior Hogwarts shots were filmed here, like flying lessons.

The brooms themselves were fiberglass props, latched onto large jibs with near invisible wires to make us fly. I’d been doing gymnastics for a while now, and I still found it difficult to keep steady.

Yet, as fulfilling as everything had been the last few months, it didn’t compensate for the fact that I barely had any time for myself.

I’d even had to set aside my extracurricular activities temporarily. Extracurriculars that would be crucial for my budding career - especially post-Potter.

More depressingly, I’d also been stymied creatively with my portrayal of Harry, purely because I’d pulled a stupid stunt that had pissed Chris Columbus off and had been forcefully reined in.

This past week, for example, should have been a great opportunity to make an impression.

We’d been filming the Snape and potions scene. Rickman, of course, stole the show, but I wish I wasn’t made to be drowned out so thoroughly.

I glanced to the side; Rickman was making a sheepish Grint autograph the unpretty caricature he’d made of the man. I’d even convinced Rupert to write ‘yippee-kay-yay’ in a speech bubble before we were caught.

Someone tugged on my sleeve; it was Watson gaining my attention. “She’s here. It’s our turn!” She pulled me to my feet hurriedly.

I called down the hall for Rupert. He was part of the quest party, too. “Van Gogh, we’ve an appointment to keep.”

Rupert quickly excused himself and peeled away from a thoroughly amused Rickman, still admiring the drawing. “Thanks for that!” He breathed out, the flush of embarrassment still painted his face red.

We jogged down the hall together to the designated meeting room.

“There they are, my golden trio!” She greeted us grandly. “And as fashionably harried as they ought to be. Good work.” JK Rowling, the big boss lady, was here to do a quarterly inspection. “Come along. Do tell me how you’ve been handling your new stations in life.”

My co-stars nattered on about this and that. I mainly sat quietly, chiming in for affirmation.

“Lovely. And how are the three of you meshing with each other? I’m certain there’s no need to mention that a comfortable dynamic between you three is incredibly vital.”

I wrapped my hands around the kids’ shoulders and squeezed them in. “Peachy.”

“He lets me borrow his Gameboy and everything!” Way to keep your priorities straight, Grint.

“He’s been ever so helpful with our schoolwork! We’ve even got a small study group. It’s such a relief to not worry about my education while doing the movie.” Watson jumped up and down on her seat

“Won’t lie, though. I sometimes wish he didn’t make us practice so much.”

“Oh, honestly! He’s just making sure we’re all at our best.” Emma defended me.

“Yes… I’d heard about that.” JK met my eyes directly. “Someone got into a lot of hot water over their overzealous rehearsal habits. To the point, it even enforced a script change.”

I had no answer to that. Rupert had his moment with Alan Rickman. Now it seems it was my turn at bat against JK.

“That’ll be all for now, children. We’ll talk a bit more next time, I promise.” She dismissed us, so we got up to leave. “Not you, Bas; I need another moment.” My two little minions looked worried for a moment. “Oh, don’t give me that look! I assure you, he’ll be returned to you in one piece. Now, off you both trot.”

I sat back down as the other two toddled off. JK leaned back in her chair, quietly observing me a minute longer. “I’d gathered you were mischievous, but I never assumed you’d be quite so devious.”

“Why? All I did was schedule a rehearsal. How would I know the media would be there?” I fired back.

“The announcement that the press was coming weeks prior, maybe? Also, don’t you think calling it a rehearsal is disingenuous? The scene being ‘rehearsed’ wasn’t in the script.”

“But it was in the books,” I rebutted. “Rupert needed cheering up. He was disappointed that half his scenes had either been omitted or altered, so we ran the Flamel discovery like it was in the books. We were only having a bit of fun.”

“You’ve already sold that story to the press and Warner Brothers PR execs. I shan’t buy it. That’s why there was tremendous studio pressure to shoot and include that scene in the final cut.” JK refuted. “This isn’t a reprimand, Bas. I’m trying to thank you.”

I reeled for a moment. “What?” I’d actually been severely scolded for that stunt by nearly everyone on the production team; I wasn’t expecting a thanks. “Why?”

“Because I have been fighting for months and months to get similar results. It doesn’t matter how sincerely or frustratedly I present my ideas - they always seem to fall on deaf ears.” She began her torrent. “I slaved over this story for years. I was on welfare, living hand to mouth with a baby on my hip. I’d roam from cafe to cafe writing my story because I couldn’t afford to keep the lights on at home. This story means everything to me, and I’m seeing it butchered by strangers who want to change my content to market it more easily to the lowest common consumer. It’s been infuriating to witness so helplessly.”

She took a few deep breaths; I held mine.

“Then you come along. You ‘inadvertently’ put the same people brushing me off over a barrel. I guess I’m hoping for you to be less of a bumbling moron and more of a criminal mastermind.” She sounded almost pleading, “I’m just wishing that you can find success where I can’t.”

What to do? In all honesty, the real story sat somewhere between the two versions. I didn’t know if my little plan would work; I just got lucky with a half-court shot.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“What don’t you like?” I probed.

“More than you can imagine. I was lobbying for an extended centaur cut - I was denied, which means there’s a big clue not mentioned. They’ve completely cut out Peeves; the list just grows!”

Wow, she’s going on a whole tirade. I guess she doesn’t have anyone else to talk to about it. “The most unforgivable alteration for me, though, has been the traps. I can forgive skipping the troll - we’ve already seen one on Halloween. But why skip the logic puzzle? It’s such an important moment for Hermione; Ron has his with the chess match and Devil’s snare. Harry will have his with the stone. Why waylay the puzzle?”

“Wait. I thought we were only meant to flop around while Hermione saves us from the snare.”

“Not anymore. After your scene with Quirrel and Voldemort, it felt too out of place. Your portrayal is - I guess the best word for it is assertive. Kloves had Harry much more passive in his head, I believe.”

“Well, Rupert’s likely going to be ecstatic. He was upset that he wouldn’t get to say, ‘Are you a witch or not!?’”

“Ian Hart - who you may remember as Quirrel - is too; he’s determined to share his rendition of the mirror scene filming on the press tour. Did you really tell him ‘You can let go of my face if you want, doesn’t mean I’ll let go of yours.’ ?” JK asked amusedly.

“I had to!” I scratched my head to hide my chagrin. “He was so worried he’d hurt me. Harry escaping death shouldn’t be so clean and easy - it should be a dirty fight!”

“Well, the scene is appropriately violent, in my opinion.” Then she focused again, “So, any ideas on how I can get my way with the puzzle scene?”

I leaned back and crossed my arms as I contemplated the problem. “When-“ I hesitated for a beat to collect my thoughts. “When we did the quidditch scenes, I noticed it was basically impossible to keep stable without both arms. I don’t know….” I sighed. “I’m already knee-deep in it; I’m not sure it’s worth the risk.”

She leaned with a sharp glint in her eye. “Don’t hold out on me.”

“You know what I do on my free days, right? I might be able to slip.” Unsurprisingly, it’s effortless to fall off a balance beam while cartwheeling across it.

Rowling was astonished. “You’d go that far?”

I held out my pinky finger. “Only if you’d tread alongside me.”

She conferred with herself for a while. Eventually, her pinky wrapped around mine. “Every step of the way. As long as I get to tell my story my way.”

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LA, California. Jan 2001.

David Heyman, for the first time in months, was relaxed. The Christmas holidays were vital for his mental health.

Just a few more sequences left to film, and then they could finally wrap. And then it was smooth sailing into promotion and the box office.

Then his phone rang.

He checked the caller ID; why was the movie insurance executive calling him? “Hello?”

“I’m sorry to call on your break, David, but I’m afraid there’s some bad news.” Oh, what’s happened now? Heyman thought to himself. “I’ve just got off the phone with Anita Specter, Bas Rhys’ agent - they’re currently sitting with a triage doctor.”

“Triage!? What happened? Is Bas alright?” Heyman nearly shot to his feet, ready to run to the hospital himself.

“No. He fractured his right arm during his gymnastics lesson. Clean split. He’ll be out of commission for six weeks, minimum.”

“This is a disaster.” Heyman reflexively rested his face in his free hand. “We can’t afford that delay. I’m guessing the insurance team won’t sign off on any wirework for the broom stunts?” He didn’t mean for it to, but his query came out far whinier than he’d liked.

The nod on the other end of the line was almost audible as the insurance exec conferred. “You know us well. We’ve reviewed the script and are okay with everything except the flying-key chase. I can’t comment on the time delay if you’re adamant on the broom stuff, but I’ll tell you now WB won’t allow Bas to do anything that strenuous till March at the earliest. What about using the stunt double?”

Heyman rubbed his temple, feeling a migraine coming on. “Too many close-ups.” He denied the suggestion. “Nothing for it then. The press tours have already been scheduled, and distribution payments have been made. I’m going to have to scrap it, and I’ll have to replace it with that logic puzzle instead. We’ll have to un-delete that scene.”

“Look on the bright side; at least Rowling will be happy for once.”

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Leavesden, Uk. Jan 2001

I lived in a caravan. RV, if you’re feeling American.

My life operated not unlike your average boarding school student’s. Show up to class, keep your quarters in order, and you were generally left to your own devices.

My stunt, however, had changed that dynamic.

I knew I’d reap the benefits of my actions down the line - especially with Rowling. But damned if I wasn’t paying for it now.

My civic freedoms stripped from me by a nanny.

Warner Brothers had sent over one of their ‘talent management liaisons’. Code for fixer. Anita Specter, my agent, had also made the trip across the pond to first berate, then care for my belligerent ass. She was also here as the person with the final say on who’d be hired as my keeper.

“Ok I promise, this one is going to be perfect for you, Bas.” The fixer nervously handed me a CV.

Anita didn’t bother taking her copy. Far happier sitting in her seat like an imperial throne, relentlessly glaring at the sweaty Californian fixer. He hadn’t made the best first impression.

He’d brought his first choice nanny from Cali. Her suspiciously serene demeanor, condescendingly gentile speech, and flowy flower patterned dress had identified her as a hippie-dippie type. Her ridiculous name, Sequoia Spirit - no, really! Confirmed my assumption.

Truth be told, Anita and I were alright taking her on; at least until something fell out of her purse on her way out. I’d thought the smell was caused by a new age vegan lifestyle.

Her parents should have named her Mary Jane instead.

I guess what they say about LA was true. Women, weather, and weed. Needless to say, she wasn’t hired. Everyone recognized child actors and recreational drugs don’t mix.

“Better be,” Anita finally snarled out. I told you she was a shark.

The fixer wrung his hands and let in the next applicant. “I dipped into the local pool, this time,” He prefaced. “Please come in, Mrs. Fine.” It was a mistake assuming that I’d see another young, pretty woman.

What lurked in the doorway was instead the long list sister of Frau Farbissina from Austin Powers and Miss Trunchbull from Matilda.

Fine, she was not.

She walked in, head high, sat down straight backed, nodded at Anita and I and greeted us with a simple. “Good day.” Proper was the only suitable adjective. Even her accent was something you expected spoken in hushed tones around Buckingham palace.

“Mrs Fine has worked for a number of distinguished families…” I let the fixer ramble on as I perused her profile. There were only a handful of names - but what names they were. From corrupt politicians to inbred aristocrats and tenures averaging out to a decade each. Legitimately impressive. I tried handing it to Anita, but she just waved me off, more focused on sizing up the army general sitting opposite us.

Anita cut the fixer off. “Anything to add?”

“No.” Succinct.

“Not worried your taciturn attitude will turn us away?” She addressed the prospective nanny alone.

“No.” Confident.

“Oh, yeah?” Anita leaned forward and challenged, “why’s that?”

“My resume speaks for itself.” She speaks!

The heavy weight of tension settled on our collective shoulders. The fixer was sweating so much his cologne was wearing off. Then Anita smiled, leaned back in her seat, and spoke. “Yeah. You can handle this hellion.”

Both women snapped their attention to me; in particular, the broken arm in a cast. “What?”

Anita just rolled her eyes, “ask whatever stupid question you’re going to.”

“If you insist. I just have one. Do you shave your armpits?” To me the marijuana was just a symptom of a larger issue. My concern with hippies was hygiene, more than anything else.

Anita’s mouth fell open. The fixer smacked his forehead, and I got the mother of all glares from nanny Fine.

“Rarely have I been forced to, but rest assured, Mr Rhys. I will hit a child.” She didn’t need to raise her voice to raise my hair. I believed her. Anita nodding along in satisfaction seemed secure in her decision and I had to concur this lady was the only one who’d be able to put me in my place.

I stood up and stretched out my hand. Given the way her eyebrows shot up, Mrs Fine wasn’t expecting that. “Welcome aboard!” She primly shook my hand. “Mind if I call you Cadbury?” Suddenly my hand was in a vise. Too late to back out now - for either of us.